Miseries and Familiars
by fragrantfields
Summary: Prequel to Deadwood; how Al and Trixie may have gotten together and early days. Language, references to death, pimp/prostitute violence, underage prostitutes in historically accurate context.Takes place circa 1866 to start.
1. Chapter 1

Miseries and Familiars

A faint smell of coal tar rose from the wooden bricks of the street. He had not yet reached the part of town where repairs were infrequent. Chicago was growing at a dizzying pace. He was heading past the towering buildings and the new businesses, towards the more miserable areas that hadn't changed much since his youth. There'd be no fresh paving there.

Al Swearengen made his way down the street, scanning the crowd out of habit. His frock coat and trousers were close-cut, showing the lines of his trim body. His fine embroidered red vest was accented with gold buttons and a fine watch chain. A heavy wave of thick black hair was a touch longer that the current fashion, framing his high cheekbones and setting off his frosty green eyes. His lips, thin but mobile, could quirk up in a knowing half-smile that many had found charming.

Absent a need to convey a message, true or feigned, his face fell into an expression of chill contempt, lips tight and turned down, half hidden by a trim moustache. As he looked past the people around him, his hooded eyes were predatory, deep green eyes marred by tiny blood-colored flecks in the iris. Violence and killing had etched dark lines into his face, although he could still hide his ruthlessness when necessary.

He stopped at a street vendor, handing over a coin for an apple. In that brief exchange, he cloaked himself with an air of affability. He gave the vendor a congenial smile, made a joking comment about his wares. The street vendor would have said he seemed like a decent gent, quick with a joke.

Al overpaid for his apple by half, throwing it away after one bite when the vendor wasn't looking. Prudence dictated that he charm his way into a false rapport with someone close to where he was going to do business. He never knew when he might need an alibi or a spy.

His stomach tightened against the bit of apple as he approached the door. Most didn't remember him here anymore. All but one of the worst of them were gone, although he could feel their ghosts through the wood. He could see himself at different ages, his breathing coming faster until he turned fear into hatred, hatred into coldness. He carefully shut that part of himself down. Memories were hindrances, and if they couldn't be destroyed, they could be locked away.

At first he thought his knock on the heavy wooden door was echoing in the chill morning air. As the pounding continued, he recognized the sound of nails being hammered into wood. The sound was different from experienced men building something to last and shelter. Amateur carpenters driving cheap nails into cheaper wood was a sound he remembered from his childhood; coffin-making sounds. It was a sound that no longer brought a chill; today it was barely acknowledged as a piece of information.

The heavy door swung open. The woman standing there was fat and piggy in a faded black dress, greasy curls piled on her head in a cheap attempt to look respectable. Her squinting eyes had a dark glint to them as she looked at Al. They remembered each other well, but they had an uneasy agreement to disregard the years he spent under her cruel indifferent thumb.

Once, a few years ago, she had made reference to Al's stay with her, two orphans in the room. He had given her a filial hug, his body hiding the knife pricking at her kidneys, whispering that the presence of children would hold his blade this one time only. She swore she would never speak of his time with her again. Seeing the tiny blood spots on her undershift that night, she swore to herself as well that she would erase Albert Swearengen from her memory, other than Al the procurer who occasionally bought her girls.

"Mrs. Anderson."

He chose to ignore even basic social courtesies. He had not erased Mrs. Fat Fucking Anderson from his memory.

She had no such constraints. She still held out hope that a show of respect might work towards her benefit, or at least to her safety.

"Mr. Swearengen, how do you do? It's good to—"

"What's that hammering? Got a croaker on your hands?" He stepped inside and stood with his hands clasped behind his back. He knew she would be worried over not seeing his hands. The thought made him smile.

"Let's talk in the parlor, shall we?" She turned to guide him into the parlor, shoulders twitching over him being behind her. She never liked her back being towards this one, even when he was a boy. Showing it, though, would not be wise.

She sat on a ratty, overstuffed sofa, stained and indifferently cleaned over the years. Al remained on his feet looking down at her.

"Ah…the unfortunate departed. That would be our Mamie, poor soul. Passed last night."

_Mamie. Stubborn, stubborn Mamie. _

"Why ain't she in Potter's Field?"

"Mamie put aside a bit here and there to see she got buried proper." _And gave it to the fucking parish priest to hold for her, damn her eyes for being a holding-out whore, _she thought.

"Did she?" He raised an eyebrow. He knew whores, and those who created them. "Who held the money for her?"

Mrs. Anderson looked up at his dark flat eyes, wondering if he could now read minds.

"Father Campbell, him who gave her the last rites. And her daughter gave up a bit of her coin, as well." _Little bitch, sneaky like her mother. At least she was among the living and able to take a beating._

"A day of surprises." He looked around the shabby room. "Mamie laid out here?"

"She's been lain out in her room. We've been preparing her earthly remains for her Christian burial."

A red haze went through his brain for a split second. He could cut her throat for that statement alone.

"I'd see her. Pay my last respects, before we do business."

She started shaking her head, then saw the look in his eyes. Black heat and death looked back at her.

She sighed. "You know the way. Ask whoever opens the door."

He left the room without a word.


	2. Chapter 2

**Miseries and Familiars, Part 2**

Al walked through the old house, long ago split into narrow rooms, each housing three or four orphan girls. Once, half had been for boys, big rooms with pallets side by side. The smell of old lard and rancid meat hung in the air by the kitchen, a faint smell of urine and lye soap permeating the walls. All the doors to the rooms were shut. Mrs. Anderson didn't want outsiders catching a glimpse of the bare squalor that the children called "home".

He crossed the strip of dirt yard between the orphanage and the whorehouse. Filth flowed from the run-down privy, unseen by the tricks coming in by the front door. Economizing by skimping on lime, he noted._ Bad enough to have to sit on the stained wooden seat, praying it wouldn't hurt too much this time, without choking on the stink of an ill-kept privy.  
><em>  
><em>One day, I'll have so much fucking money, I'll never have to smell the stench of other people's shit.<br>_  
>An older slattern opened the door, eyes rimmed red.<p>

"I'm here to see Mamie, pay my respects."

"Oh, mister, I don't know—"

He reached out and held her chin lightly, looking at the marks on her cheek and ear.

"Hope that don't owe to a problem with listening."

His low voice conveyed enough threat for her to fear him more than Mrs. Anderson. She walked him to Mamie's room. He looked at the two whores going through Mamie's meager belongings.

"Get out."

They didn't know him, but recognized a pimp's ruthless voice. Both put down the books and clothing in their hands and left without saying a word.

He looked down at the body lying in front of him. One of the whores had splashed some cheap cologne around to cover the smell. He shook his head.

"Mary Margaret, you stupid cunt. You stupid, stubborn cunt."

He looked at the bruises on her face and neck. She'd been beaten, and then strangled. She was covered by a dirty sheet, the clothes she owned scattered about by the whores. Her blonde hair was matted and filthy, dirt still ground into her face and neck. Nobody had given her a final washing. He went to the door, looked at the hovering whores.

"Get me a bucket of clean water, soap, and some fuckin' rags."

He turned his back on their questions as he took off his jacket and started rolling up his sleeves.

Al turned most of his mind off while he washed Mary Margaret Shea's face, neck and arms, methodically running the soapy rag down her cold motionless flesh, then again to rinse her clean. He allowed a crack in the door that hid his memories.

"_You don't have to stay here. I can buy you out from Mrs. Fat Fucking Anderson, you can work for me. "  
><em>  
>He remembered her soft Irish brogue.<p>

_"Don't worry about me, Albert. I managed to make the crossing with a babe in tow. I can manage this old bitch."_

_"Oh, I'm not worried…worrying after whores is a fool's game. But you know how this'll turn out."  
><em>  
>From their first conversation, he knew she was tough. She had made her way from Ireland to England while she still had some meat on her bones and her child was still healthy. She didn't remember the first famine, but heard enough about it so she didn't plan to go through the second, not with her child starving with her.<p>

She hadn't anticipated the hatred America would have for the Irish. She had been blessed with blond hair and blue eyes, but her speech gave her away every time. A well-to-do trick had financed her and her toddler traveling to Chicago, where her accent wasn't as much of a barrier. She soon heard of this place on Euclid Avenue, orphanage in front, whorehouse in back.

A deal made with Mrs. Anderson and she settled into a steady life of whoring on her side of the path, and her daughter settled in with the orphan girls on the other. Regular out-visits to the local priest on her half-days off (gratis) bought her daughter some schooling.

The first time Al met Mary Margaret, he wasn't thirty yet, but had a reputation as a man who could run an operation well, bringing the money in and keeping trouble out, wielding his bone-handled knife when necessary. He was successful enough so the owner didn't question his penchant for recruiting whores from a particular Chicago orphanage.

Mary Margaret had started to go by "Mamie" by then, trying to shake off the Irish. Brought out to the parlor reluctantly that day, she had studied the well-dressed English tough while he talked with Mrs. Anderson. Al could pass for American-born to most, but she caught the whiff of a Manchester accent in some of his words. Mrs. Anderson had left Mamie to entertain Al while she rounded up the available girls.

Al hadn't been looking for an older whore. He had better luck with ones young enough to be malleable. Still, this one had caught his attention. Even though she looked to be close to his age, she wasn't beaten down. She had clear eyes back then, hadn't found needle and dope yet.

Maybe it was just that she could talk about things of the world in a way that he liked, like someone who looked at a newspaper now and again. His own whores tended to be ignorant and young, and if their mouths weren't occupied by his prick, he would wish for cotton for his ears.

After he made his choice from the girls presented, he asked her to walk with him while the girls readied to leave. The miasma of the place, whether real or remembered, was wearing on him. Mrs. Anderson had given her a vigorous nod of permission.

Mamie was dressed plainly but respectably, not yet in her working clothes. He bought two apples from a street vendor as they walked. He watched as she took healthy bites with strong white teeth, crunching with pleasure as juice dabbled her chin.

She allowed herself to enjoy a conversation with a man she hadn't been paid to pleasure, watching him eat his fruit with efficiency, down to the core. She thought he ate like a man who still remembered what it was like to be little and hungry.

They both were unused to talk that didn't involve cash or scheming, and found it a pleasant change. She let her guard down enough to tell him her full name. He called her "Mary Margaret" the rest of their walk. She told him then of her arrival in America, how she and her child had come to Mrs. Anderson's place.

Before he left, he surprised himself by offering for her anyway. He had the idea that maybe she could become his whore-mistress, take over that part while he built the rest of his business. She hadn't wanted to leave, though. She tried to explain her fears of moving again. Said she had "attachments to the community."

She was on his mind as he left with his new whores, and he wondered if she'd be there his next trip. He gave his traveling instructions to the girls, a tall redhead and a mousy, dainty brunette, and they headed out. He ignored their chattering and thought of intelligent blue eyes, bright and icy.


	3. Chapter 3

Al's next trip through came a couple of years later. He was surprised and pleased, at first, to see Mamie still there. He had been hoping, but whores tended not to last long at the Anderson place. That visit, he talked to her again about coming with him to his new business, this time a saloon in Cincinnati that was opening an adjoining brothel.

Perhaps he had built up an idea of Mamie that kept her frozen in time, untouched by the realities of her work and her life. When she came into the parlor, she had looked pleased to see him but tired that day, had last night's liquor on her breath. Her face was puffy around her eyes. Her mouth turned down more than he remembered. Her ice blue eyes were streaked with faint red lines and her right eye had a dot of blood on the white. He'd seen people come back from worse, though.

When she smiled, her face could still light up. She was still interested in the events of the country, and enjoyed sharing her opinion about politics and war. She talked as if she were exercising a part of her brain that didn't get much use; slow at first, then warming to the conversation. He paid for three hours of her time, dropping the bills on Mrs. Anderson's desk.

They had a dinner of ham, potatoes and beans at a tavern two blocks from the orphanage. He told her about his plans for owning his own joint someday, maybe owning more, as they walked back. Still some time on the clock, they sat on a wooden bench by the fence that enclosed both whorehouse and orphanage, watching the afternoon go by.

Mamie pointed out a young girl in the orphanage part of the yard. About ten or eleven, the girl had her mother's blond hair and ice-blue eyes. Small but had a wary, scrappy look about her. Tough little orphanage kid.

_My daughter, _she had said. _She does well in school here. _

"There's schools in Cincinnati."

She couldn't meet his eyes, or tell him that she had visions of being far from Chicago and him getting bored with her, or unhappy with her work, turning her and her child into the streets. She was scared of having to figure things out all over again. It was easier to let things be. She tried to think of a way to say it that didn't make her sound like a coward, and couldn't.

"Al, I've gotten used to it here. I know what to expect. Things…chug along without me thinking about it too much. And my daughter doesn't know any other place than this. Sometimes I think she thinks she's one of the orphans. Isn't it better for her to be there than making do in a back room of a brothel?

"Mamie, Goddamnit, you didn't grow up there!" He slammed his fist against the peeling bench in frustration. "She's in more danger over there than she would be living in the back of a whorehouse."

The image of Al carving a child's space out of a whorehouse made her smile. "Al, are you sure you're English-born? You'd put a receiving room out of play to make room for an innocent? You'll be going to Confession next."

He knew she'd made up her mind. He took her hand and gave her a wry smile.

"I'd make it up out of what you'd earn me."

They both pretended that they didn't know Mamie's high earning days were slipping away with every passing month, every liquor bottle left empty on her floor. He conducted his business with Mrs. Anderson, getting an olive-skinned girl with black hair and dark, almost black eyes. She was obvious in her attempts to please him, rubbing her breasts against his arm, stroking his leg while she chattered about her abilities and specialties. Finally he held her face and grumbled, "this trip will go a hell of a lot better if you just…don't talk unless you have to. Can you do that, Rita?"

She nodded, wide eyed, and settled into her seat. Finally able to hear himself think, Al could see things sliding downhill for this once-bright woman and her kid, and her not even willing to look at a safety rope thrown her way. Whores afraid of change kept him in business, but he would've liked to have seen this one turn out different. Al spent a scant minute running through his mental list of a number of things that he wished had gone different, then focused back on business. He didn't let himself think of ice blue eyes this time.


	4. Chapter 4

**A/N: All characters are property of HBO and David Milch other than historical figures. Not making a cent off anything. This story line will continue to have underage prostitutes, an unfortunate but historically accurate reality. **

**Miseries and Familiars**

Part 4

The last time he had seen her alive, Mamie had looked like a hellish hollowed-out shell. He had told Mrs. Fat Fucking Anderson he was taking her for a walk and would look at the new whores when he got back. Mamie's eyes had struggled with the sunlight and her faded flowered dress hung on her skinny frame. He was unsurprised to see little punctures and scabs on the inside of her arms.

He had changed, too. He had started hiring out as muscle for some men in Cincinnati. He kept his knife keenly honed and well-fed. It was making him as much money as any whore ever did. He was still one man, though, not given to trusting others as a rule, and every man who hired his blade was a potential witness who could send him to the long drop.

He thought about moving his operation out of Cincinnati, go somewhere he wasn't so well-known. Make a fresh start. He went back and forth on whether he wanted to continue to run whores and gambling, or if straight muscle and thieving would be more profitable. He thought a trip to Chicago might help clear his mind, help set him on one clear course of action. Seeing Mamie in this condition made him question whether catering to men's vices was worth the cost. Made cutting throats seem cleaner somehow, even with carrying a greater risk.

That was the first time he didn't try to talk Mamie into coming with him. She didn't talk much. She'd stopped reading newspapers, barely knew about the war and its effects. They sat at a dingier tavern closer to the orphanage this time, one not frequented for its food. Mamie sipped her whiskey and scratching absently at her arms, greyish-blonde hair straggling from its chignon.

They both spoke at the same time.

"I wish I'd listened—"

"I wish you'd listened'—"

"You go first," he said, angry at the wreckage he saw before him.

"They did it." Her eyes stayed on her half-empty glass.

He sighed. "Did what?"

"I thought I could…or maybe the priest…that she could be protected."

"Did you?" He tried to keep sarcasm from his voice but damn, try to help somebody, try to warn somebody…waste of fucking time.

"They—Mrs. Anderson—turned her out. Told me she was abed with the fever and I couldn't see her for two weeks. They had Father Sullivan come tell me how she was doing, that she was getting better…"

"Did they, now? Bet he was the first one."

He saw a spark of the old Mary Margaret then. "You don't have to be such a bloody smug bastard about it."

"No? I _knew_ this was coming. I _told_ you what I knew about her and her orphan-pimpin' ways. You thought, what, some education, the Church, and "mother love" would keep your girl safe? "

Her face sagged. "I thought I had more time…"

"Time gets funny when you're a dope fiend, doesn't it? And I think—no, I _know_—_some_body at this table told you they'd turn her out as soon as she started to bleed."

He sat back, frustrated, disgusted. His hand under the table opened and closed, opened and closed. Anger fought a poor battle with what traces of compassion he had left.

"So tell me, Mary Margaret, just out of curiosity, did you start the junk before or after they turned her out?"

She looked into her lap, silent.

"The answer ain't in your cunt, Mary Margaret. Look at me."

He grabbed her wrist, squeezed until she winced with pain and looked at him.

"Before, or after?"

She whispered, ashamed. "Before."

She wished she could have blamed her taking up the needle on a mother's grief at her child's lost innocence, but she knew he'd see that for the lie it was.

His lip curled. "Mother love. Where would we be without it? Mothers…_whore_ so much better when they're able to abandon their young. Fuckin' kids just get in the way, don't they?"

He had an image come to mind that might have been his mother…he wasn't sure anymore what she had looked like.

"Did you tell yourself she'd be fine, she can take care of herself, when you cooked your first needle? Or did you think _you_ had to whore for _her_, once upon a time, so now it was _he_r turn to whore for _you_? Or maybe you sold her for dope, figure you might as well get something out of the inevitable, hmm?"

With every sentence, she was becoming less of a person to him, more of a stand-in for his first betrayer. His grip continued to constrict against bone and vein.

She pulled her wrist back, now bright red. "I'm going to bruise from that."

He stood up. "Good. Not anywhere near what you deserve."

Tears dripped into her lap. She said something under her breath, still looking down.

"Goddammit, talk so I can hear you."

"I said, would you buy her? Get her out of here?" She barely raised her head, not looking any higher than his chin.

He leaned over, breath hot against her face, a snarl in his voice.

"I don't buy _children."_

"She's not a child. She's _thirteen_."

The words were out of her mouth before she realized how cold and whorish they sounded, trying to promote her daughter to a better class of pimp.

The back of his hand was across her face before he realized it. She took the slap with the ease of experience. The other patrons looked away as he pulled her up and out the door. Errant women and their angry men were nothing novel here.

"I'm sorry." She was used to apologizing for whatever made men slap her. She rubbed at her face as he pulled her along. She could feel his anger ebbing. Some men were like that…one slap and they started to cool down. There were worse men in her life, these days.

Al ignored her apology, started casting around for a way out of this mess. "Look, I got my own problems. I gotta start thinkin' about relocatin', get out from under some conflicts I got going on." He stopped outside of the orphanage door, looked into watery blue eyes.

"Why don't you try another priest, or a doctor the other whores trust, see if you can get off the dope," he said, weaving hopeful fantasies out of thin air. "I don't know what to tell you about your girl…_" _he trailed off, not willing to make too many false promises_._

"Maybe next time I'm through here, if you're off the stuff…maybe I can come up with something. No promises. I got my own way to make…same as you. Same as your girl."

She smiled, He could see the old Mary Margaret for a second. "You still coming back here, even if you set up in Timbuktu?"

He saw again the long rooms, the crowded pallets, the midnight visits.

"Yeah. If I go that way again, running saloons and the like, I'll still buy whores from here." His mouth turned up in a mirthless smile." Everybody's got something strange about 'em. Guess this is mine."

"I'll try to do what you said, Al," she lied. "See you next time."

"Yeah. See you next time," he said with a false smile that he wished could have been genuine. He could hope he'd see her again, and in an improved state, but the odds were against it. Still, even a novice at the table rolled sevens once in a while. He knew he'd be back.

She went inside. Mrs. Fat Fucking Anderson scurried to the door to beckon him in.

He stood in the street. He made up his mind in that moment. Easier to spill a man's blood and walk away than to think about whores being someone's daughters. In time, he might think differently, looking at a balance sheet of risk and profit, but today, he didn't have the stomach for it.

"I'm outa the whore trade for a while, Mrs. Anderson. Gonna focus on some other enterprises." He stepped up next to her, held her flabby arm hard. Grinning coldly, he stared through her surprised look.

"But when I start running girls again, believe me, I'll think of you."

He pushed her arm away, watching Mamie's grey-gold hair through the window as she went into the whorehouse. He unconsciously stroked the sheath of his knife at his belt as he walked away from Euclid Avenue once again.


	5. Chapter 5

**Miseries and Familiars, Part 5 (End)**

Al came back into the present, bucket of dirty water by his side. Two flies buzzed around the room as he dropped the dirty rags into the water for the last time. He had been able to remove the dirt and the dried blood on her face, although bruises still colored Mamie's neck. He brushed her hair over the worst of them, combing long strands into a semblance of order. He'd bullied the other two whores into finding a clean sheet for her. He crossed her clean hands over the sheet. She'd have to be re-arranged once they put her in the coffin, but at least she could look like someone who might finally be able to rest in peace, properly tended and mourned.

Al walked out of her room, tout of the whorehouse. He had a vague impression of Mrs. Fat Fucking Anderson starting to ask something about staying for the services. He cut her off with an emotionless "No".

A man in a backwards collar, sleeves rolled up, stood over a rough pine coffin, hammer in hand. Al walked towards him.

"You Sullivan or Campbell?"

The priest raised his eyebrows. "I'm Father Campbell. And you are…?"

"None of your fuckin' concern." He shoved some bills into the priest's hand. "This is for Mamie. Mary Margaret Shea. Get her name right in her send-off."

He walked into the street, wondering at priests who ministered to whores, if they worded their prayers differently for them. He walked a few blocks to a hotel that bordered on respectability, and paid for a week in advance, plus extra for a bottle to be brought daily to his room. He doubted he could enter a tavern without being approached by working girls, and for the first time in his memory, he felt abstentious. Probably wouldn't last long, but he would respect the feeling for a few days, even if he didn't quite understand its origin.

For the next week, Al walked the quiet city blocks in the early mornings' hush, going near enough to the orphanage to buy an apple each day, never approaching the door. He drank alone in the evenings and reviewed his plans for the future. Weighed various options. Evaluated rumors he had heard coming out of Cincinnati that did not bode well for his future there. He had hired on as manager at a gentlemen's sporting club, trying to balance his work as a knife for hire with once again selling liquor and women. Stretched too thin to operate with his usual care, he had overplayed his hand once or twice.

Truth be told, it galled him to risk his neck for someone else's purpose and profits, settling for fees that seemed less and less adequate. He still drew a distinction between a man who could cut throats when he had to, and a man who saw "cutthroat" as his vocation. He had started to feel relief when he had no knife work waiting, and could concentrate on the evening's honest trade.

As the days went into evenings, he put on his congenial visage and talked with staff at the more successful joints in town. He heard rumblings about "Manifest Destiny" and "Westward Expansion" in taverns and brothels frequented by military men. To be hundreds of miles away, finding new ways to turn a profit, was a tempting idea. Maybe one more year in his current joint would give him an ample stake to fund his heading West while he was still a relatively young man. He thought it was possible his luck could hold out for another year if he started stepping away from the muscle trade, if that last man's family didn't twig to the truth.

.

.

Head clearer by week's end, Al was ready to take care of final business, buy his allotment of whores, (small this time, to conserve his cash) and head back. One last trip to the orphanage, maybe make sure Mary Margaret had been laid to rest in a manner keeping with what had been paid. See if her girl needed anything before he left Chicago.

He knocked on the weathered door. Mrs. Fat Fucking Anderson let him in again, acting like she expected him. She clucked about some new girls she had to show him. He let her chatter flow on by and walked through to the common area, upwind of the privies.

A young girl caught his eye. She reminded him of Mary Margaret, long wavy blond hair and blue icy eyes. _Had to be the daughter_. She and the girls standing with her noticed his look. He walked towards the group of young ladies, all in white cotton dresses trimmed in pastel ribbons. It was obvious that he was looking at the blonde. Soft and innocent, eyes wide, a smile turning her lips up at the corners. _This was no whore_, he thought. She had an almost angelic glow about her, lighting up her big wide eyes.

Eyes that had enormous, black pupils and a hint of glaze.

He watched as the angelic blonde took a final drag off her hand-rolled cigarette, then stubbed it out against the wall. She narrowed her eyes in warning to the other girls until they pulled back, and then walked towards him, eyes wide again. He could see subtle changes in her expression, preparing for the afternoon's work, as she approached.

"Would you like to be my Daddy for the day?" She said with a sweet smile and practiced tilt of her head.

He stopped. "Walk with me a minute."

"Walking still costs, sir." She looked down at her feet.

"I'll take that up with Mrs. Anderson. You'll get your usual cut."

They walked down the path, near the raggedy orphanage garden. Al stopped when out of earshot of the other girls. He looked again at her wide, black pupils, only a hint of blue iris showing around them.

"What are you on?"

She smiled and all but batted her eyes. "What do you mean, sir?"

He struck her across the face with an open hand. With mild surprise he saw her fall to the ground, although he hadn't hit her that hard. He imagined her mother teaching her the tricks of the trade_: When they hit you, drop down and act like they really hurt you. Sometimes that makes them stop_. He stood over her, hands in his pockets.

"Get up and answer my question, or next time you'll be on the ground for real." His tone was casual and dry.

"Again, what are you on?"

A sullen look came over her face, all traces of angel gone. "I take a bit of laudanum sometimes."

Al raised his eyebrows and looked at her. She amended her statement.

"I take a bit, most days."

"How much?"

"A dropper-full when I do, if it's any of your business." Now he could see the scrappy orphanage girl she had been, lip poked out and frowning.

"You pull that "Daddy" bit a lot?"

She shrugged. "Some a' the older gents like it. I got the tits to look like a kid, still."

"Tell me how old you are. Without lying."

She looked a bit uncertain at this. A look at his cold black eyes and the lingering sting on her cheek made her decide to tell the truth. He seemed to know his way around whore's business.

"I'm fifteen, but dressed right, I can pass for twelve. Mrs. Anderson says I do best when the men think I'm younger."

"Yeah, pimping youngsters is her strength."

She lifted her chin. "I earn my way, going by what she says. Earned my mam's way, too, when she got bad off."

"So…you know the value of being a good earner." He looked at her with a touch of respect. "That's in your favor. And helped your mam out, when she needed you?"

She nodded.

"Tell me about her."

The girl's eyes flashed a brief second before the laudanum brought her back down. "Her? Nothing to tell. Just an old doper whore, couldn't bring the coin much anymore. Mrs. Anderson gave her the men who liked to hurt girls to get hard." She began fiddling with a ribbon hanging from her waist, twisting it around her fingers.

"Gave her the wrong trick a week ago, he beat her then wrung her neck for her. Took my last dollar to get her put in the ground. Useless bitch, robbing me one last time from her fucking grave." Her delicate hands began smoothing out the ribbon again. "Earned me a last beatin' too, when Mrs. Anderson found out I'd been holdin' money back." She dropped the ribbon and looked down, now twisting a strand of pale hair.

He put his hand on her shoulder. "Mothers." He sighed. "Not all they're made out to be, sometimes, huh?" He sounded almost sympathetic.

She looked at him in surprise. There was something other than lust in his eyes. Like maybe he knew something about this, something about her. She shook her head. He was a man who could afford a decent suit, and buy girls when he liked. Probably had everything handed to him, had a mother who doted on him. She tried to steer him back to the day's trade. This time she chose a more straightforward approach.

"So, you gonna fuck me, or should I suck your prick, or what?"

He ignored her question, rocking on his heels a bit as he phrased his own questions.

"You get along with the other girls, take your turn with the customers, refrain from fightin'?"

"Mostly, yeah." She gave up trying to work out what this man was looking for. She was smart enough to realize these were a pimp's questions, not things a trick would ask. She figured she'd find out soon enough.

"What will Mrs. Anderson say if I ask her about bad habits?"

She looked away. "That I take the laudanum, I can be mouthy, and I show my temper now and then."

"If she says different, I'll buy you just to give you a fuckin' beatin' for lying."

She could tell he meant it. "And I sometimes get funny mick ideas like my mam about signs and portents."

"That's it?"

"Yeah. Yes sir," she amended.

He walked her back to the orphanage. ""Yeah" is fine. Don't be throwin' a fucking "sir" in there."

She realized he had a made a decision about her, that she'd be leaving with him. She looked at the other girls, wondered if she would have felt sad about leaving if she hadn't been on her laudanum high.

When they reached the main building, he told her to go pack while he settled up with Mrs. Anderson. She told him lies about the girl's obedience and her placid demeanor. He looked at her throat as he counted out the money, and pictured her bleeding out under his blade. He hadn't offered an explanation for buying just the one girl, and she made a deliberate choice to not ask.

"Have her ready in an hour. I'll be back with the wagon." He gripped her arm again, making it hurt.

"I'll be back, Mrs. Anderson. Wouldn't dream of buying my whores from anyone else. Always makes me feel good, buying from you."

Half way down the steps, he turned and asked if she was going to do anything about the trick that beat Mamie to death, then turned back away from her blank stare.

.

.

An hour later, Al tied the hired wagon a block from the orphanage and started down the walk, stopping at the street vendor's stand. A week's worth of overpaid apples bought him the tip that two well-dressed, serious looking men who had ridden in on fine horses were waiting inside the orphanage, carrying long guns with them.

_Fuckin' Pinkertons, _he thought to himself. Cincinnati had caught up with him, or was trying to. He couldn't remember what lie he told the street vendor, but he followed it with a fiver. Twenty minutes later, a slim young girl, hair covered with a shawl, came out of the side entrance of the whorehouse, valise in hand. Another fiver paid to the tight-lipped vendor, and the wagon headed out of town.

The girl didn't say much. Whoring under him probably wouldn't be much different from whoring for Mrs. Anderson, she thought. As long as she could have her laudanum and regular meals, and not be beat on too much, she'd get by. She noticed he was going by the little Catholic cemetery on their way out of town.

"What're you doing here, mister?"

"Call me Al. Not that it's any of your business, but I'm lookin' to see if I got my money's worth on something."

He spotted a small wooden marker with a decently carved "Rest in Peace, Mary Margaret "Mamie" Shea".

"Is that my mam?"

"Yeah. She was…you look a lot like she used to, when she was younger. Before she got on the needle."

"I remember before the needle. She was just a drunk then." She didn't sound pleased about the comparison.

He looked over his shoulder, watching for men on fine horses, then back at the angry girl. "You remember her readin' the papers, or her books? Her talkin' about The Old Country, or the war?"

Mister…um…Al, I don't remember anything like what you're talkin' about." She tilted her head and looked up at him, risked a question. "Did you used to fuck my mam?"

"No, I never did. Probably should have, but…no." He thought he might mull that over one day, when he wasn't worried about pursuit and murder warrants.

She figured her mam had been too old when this gent started coming around. Anybody buying her probably liked younger girls.

.

.

An hour out of town, he told her there was a change of plans, and he thought they'd be going out West, maybe to Cheyenne, instead of Cincinnati.

.

.

Two hours out of town, she slid her hand up his leg to his prick, the way she knew men like a girl to do. This slap surprised her too much to use any of her mother's tricks.

"What the fuck was _that_ for?"

"You save that for payin' customers, or for when I ask you for it. When I want you takin' care of me, I'll let you know. I don't ask, you keep your hands to yourself."

She stared at the side of his face closest to her. "How come you don't want me to suck you or anything? Something wrong with me? Or don't you like girls?"

A note of fear crept into her voice behind her challenging tone. Her grip on the wooden seat tightened. She didn't know any trade but whoring, and just the basics of that, and her letters. If she couldn't keep her new boss happy, she could end up dead before the week was out. She masked her fear with an angry glare.

His hand was at her throat before she saw it coming. He held her by the throat, not squeezing, not letting go. His calm, even voice was terrifying in its matter-of-fact tone.

"I don't like mouthy cunts. I don't like being questioned.

"I'll keep you fed, a roof over your head, and get you payin' customers that aren't likely to hurt you. You, for your part, will do as I say."

He squeezed just hard enough to make her feel the strength in his hand.

"Do we have an understanding?"

She looked into his eyes. She saw the killer, the whore-beater. She saw the provider, the protector. Somewhere in the black cold, she thought she saw…maybe someone who had been in her shoes, had carried his own portion of hurt. Maybe still carried it.

She croaked out her first "I'll be good" at Al's hand.

He grunted, let go, and took up the reins again.

.

.

Three hours out of town, he asked her what her name was.

""Elizabeth, like the Queen," my mam always said."

Tears filled her eyes for the first time since her mother died. She bit them back.

"But everybody calls me Trixie."

Al didn't speak, just handed her the last apple from the Euclid Avenue vendor. She looked at him while she bit into the apple, wondering, as she watched the sunset fade into night.

.

.

A/N This concludes "Miseries and Familiars", although their story will continue from their first meeting to their time in Deadwood proper.

* * *

><p><strong>For anyone wondering about the title, it comes from one of Trixie's great lines in explaining the pull she feels towards Al:<strong>

**_"I've lived most of my life as a whore, and as much as he's her misery, the pimp's a whore's familiar, and the sudden strange or violent draws her to him."_**


End file.
